To reject the world To embrace the world

Martin Bergström

Text by Daniel Gustafsson

(Pages)

–43.755° / 22.807°

–30.249° / 22.807°

–38.765° / 10.105°

–26.550° / 10.105°

–33.279° / –43.388°

–19.950° / –43.388°

–14.530° / –77.223°

–3.558° / –77.223°

0.000° / –54.575°

11.605° / –54.575°

1.823° / –28.754°

14.837° / –28.754°

4.522° / 0.000°

16.476° / 0.000°

–150.433° / 48.321°

–138.786° / 48.321°

–140.189° / 6.820°

–125.500° / 6.820°

–122.756° / –20.089°

–111.550° / –20.089°

–97.154° / –65.209°

–83.468° / –65.209°

–73.335° / 15.654°

–61.118° / 15.654°

–66.533° / 30.790°

–53.762° / 30.790°

–56.413° / 69.731°

–44.528° / 69.731°

7.659° / 18.511°

21.115° / 18.511°

15.668° / 35.127°

29.101° / 35.127°

30.256° / 59.505°

42.835° / 59.505°

56.777° / 37.464°

69.120° / 37.464°

63.853° / 15.342°

77.396° / 15.342°

70.115° / –7.855°

84.142° / –7.855°

67.265° / –26.610°

80.103° / –26.610°

80.515° / –43.468°

93.501° / –43.468°

102.111° / –69.120°

115.178° / –69.120°

111.400° / –35.773°

125.267° / –35.773°

116.654° / –8.699°

130.582° / –8.699°

119.056° / 18.665°

131.543° / 18.665°

122.255° / 48.273°

135.768° / 48.273°

W –150º

55º

E–150º

42º

–135º

W –135º

–12º

E

Prologue

The alarm rang at dawn and the dew glistened shattered glass in the garden while smoke rose from the lake. I got dressed, hung the camera bag from my shoulder and began walking westwardly as the sun slowly rose up my back. After a half a mile I diverted from the path, caught the scent of fire maiden, purple marshlock and elf-cap moss as I carefully climbed down towards the glade deep among the thick, dark vegetation. Soundlessly, I got the camera out of the bag and pushed the lens through the dense foliage until my view was clear. I zoomed in, closer, closer, all the way until the focus was right. Until I was closer than any other human being. I took one single image. Then it was gone. And when the light of the dark room extended its blood red upon me that evening, my whole body trembled, but I was smiling, although remembering those whom I have walked straight through, as if they were ghosts, all the cold nights in ditches, all the enormous, sparkling nights I had experienced and all the trees I had rested my head against to get to see what I now saw emerging on the photo paper—a close-up of the horizon.

–125.500

° / 6.8

20°

–135º

–0º

–125º

W–9

7.15

4°

/

–

65.

209

°–97º

–72º

E–8

3.46

8° / –6

5.209

°–97º

–60º

–80º

E–30

.249

° / 22.80

7°

17º

–30º

W

E–26

.550° / 10

.105°

–17º

–25º

W–3

3.27

9°

/

–4

3.38

8°

-30º

–40º

-30º

E –3.558

° / –77.223°

–85º

0º

W0

.00

0°

/

–5

4.5

75°

3º

–60º

E11.6

05° / –54

.575°3º

–50º

12º

E77.396

° / 15.342°

8º

75º

W70

.115

°

/

–7.

855

°75º

–2º

E5

3.6

31 / -0

.747

75º

75º

-145º

E

Lapicés de la Muerte

—1 It was at a house party, a week after I handed in my res-ignation, that I first heard of Lapicés de la Muerte—the headstone poets. I had written poetry printed on fridge magnets for over ten years, and I had never considered writing about the sound of the sea breeze in the knees of a rheumatic, nor had I considered using expressions such as “the even-ing warmth of a backyard” or writing “the voices which traveled across the silence of the football pitch at midnight”. I had come to write fridge poetry having published three poems in a school newspaper as a thirteen-year-old. And having never grown linguistically older than thir-teen—a requirement also of my employer and a condition of my employment to which to make useful reference when lovers questioned my craft—I would have contin-ued writing fridge poetry to this day. That evening, when nearly all of the guests at the party had called for taxis, indicated a route through the nightclub landscape and left behind a scent heavy with adrenalin, the hostess of the party and I remained seated on the floor on each side of an illuminated globe. Her red nail tapped on northern Mexico. “Are you familiar with the tribe Lapicés de la muerte … the headstone poets?” she said.

93.501° / –4

3.46

8°

–50º

95º

W

“The pencils of death? Hardly … Should I be?” “I don’t know”, she said. “But some say they are the ones hired to compose what is to be engraved on lonely people’s headstones … “You know people without close friends or relatives to google for haikus to put on stones and erect above their heads once they’re dead … Wait.” She left the bedroom and came back with a hand-written note, which she handed over to me. “I really believe you would find your place with them”, she said. “Call this number when you get to La Barrancas. He will help you find them.” When I had dressed, kissed her on the cheek, and was just about to thank her, she added: “And when you’re there—because I can tell you’re going—let him know I miss him”, she pointed at the pocket where I had put the note. “And visit the city Lévitma. Some say it feels as if you’re levitating when you get within the city bounds. Thanks for coming tonight.”

—2 I had previously only heard the Copper Canyon men-tioned in a biography of Geronimo and another of Pancho Villa. Even so I had realized it wasn’t a place for human beings, but one for shadows. And now I had traveled through the cool night, told the driver that the hostess missed him and, with the sunrise

102.

111°

/

–6

9.12

0°

105º

–65º

E

drawing nearer, felt the sweat run down my legs as the shadows of the canyon’s rock faces were projected around us like fine veils of black dust offering little relief from the heat. “Over there”, said the man whom the hostess missed, pointing towards the foot of a rock in the distance. “Just follow the path, and then the sound, and you will find them. Good luck, gringo.” I had finished half of my gallon of water when I heard the sound he had mentioned. Like a thousand feet mov-ing in flight, barely touching the ground. But the closer I got the more it sounded like a choir of whispers. And then I saw them. In the shade outside a large cave sat about two hun-dred men, squatting in white loincloths and what seemed to be turquoise tunics. In one hand, each man held a white notebook, frenetically scribbling upon its pages. I remained standing there, watching them, whilst listening to the sound that had guided me—the sound of the pencils of death. When after a couple of hours I had mustered the courage to approach the group, a man in a black tunic soon rose, and without speaking a word came to greet me, smiled, took a friendly hold of my arm and showed me to a place where I could sit. That first day I wrote more than I had written in all my years as a fridge poet. I wrote and rewrote, felt something catch fire within me. I saw empty headstones and destinies worthy only of cartoon characters in front of me, and then, as on a given signal, the writing subsided. The headstone

115.178° / –69.120

°105º

–75º

115º

W

poets rose. The man in the black tunic returned smiling towards me, showed me to a place in a cave, which I was to share with twelve other scriveners, and disap-peared again without a word. That night I listened to the animals down in the canyon, adapted my body to the hard jute mattress and dreamed of bees swarming around the yellow and black striped dress of a girl at the farm where I grew up.

—3

It was during my second year there, when I had got to know the silence, when I had learnt that the women in the tribe dealt with life and the men with death, just as I had learnt the few words you needed there, that Arnulfo, the Indian in the black tunic, asked me to accompany him to his cave. During the time I had spent there, many of those who formed part of the tribe when I arrived had left or been posted in cities, villages, deserts and by road-sides, and now I imagined it was my turn. But when Arnulfo asked me to sit, I saw his hands shaking. He asked me to wait for a moment, went further into the cave and returned with a package in his hands. It was two foot in diameter and covered by a yellow tarpau-lin. He put the package in front of me, pressed his index finger against his lips to ensure I would remain silent, and opened it. I had not smelt the scent of grass for a very long time and as it hit me, I struggled

111.

40

0°

/

–

35.7

73°

115º

–37º

E

to keep the tears back. We were both sweating profusely as we stared with astonishment at the chunk of grass, green as glass, lying between us. And so when Arnulfo took my hand and placed it up upon the grass I did not expect to feel what I felt. The grass was cool. I placed both forearms on the grass and felt its cooling impact, its breath, its sighs of winds from a place far from there. All that evening, we remained seated in silence with the grass between us, smiling to one another as only people who have touched parts of earth’s hidden places can smile.

—4

Little more than a year after that evening, I was woken at dawn by Arnulfo. He asked me to gather my belong-ings. It was my turn to go. The man who had taken me there had returned, but this time he had landed a small propeller airplane a couple of miles away. I put my hand on Arnulfo's shoulder and we set off for the airplane. We stopped over eight times to fill up with petrol. We slept beneath the naked sky in places where the trees yawned and the forest smelt of rock cinquefoil. Then the snow fell and we landed one last time. “Here, give me a hand”, said the guide. From the cargo he lifted a package, ten foot long and five foot in diameter. If it hadn’t been for the yellow tarpaulin wrapped around it, it would have reminded me of ensilage in plastic wrapping. The snow was nearly

125.267° / –35.773°115º

–30º

120º

W

knee-deep as we hauled the package along and the sun rose slowly as we approached the valley. It took us two hours to reach the timbre cottage and we had barely got there before the guide shook my hand and returned to the airplane. Carefully, and with fingers frozen stiff, I cut the yellow tarpaulin open, heard the grass sigh and felt the scent fill my nostrils as I unrolled the package outside the cottage. I put my palm against it and felt the warmth from the grass proliferate through my entire body. That morning I took my snow boots and woolen socks off. I saw the steam rise from the grass and stepped onto it with the sun in my eyes, squinting at the snow clad silence and crying with gratitude.

116

.654

°

/

–8.6

99

°115º

1º

W12

2.25

5°

/

48

.273

°125º

55º

E135.76

8° / 4

8.273°

125º

40º

135º

(Pages)

122.255° / 48.273°

135.768° / 48.273°

119.056° / 18.665°

131.543° / 18.665°

116.654° / –8.699°

130.582° / –8.699°

111.400° / –35.773°

125.267° / –35.773°

102.111° / –69.120°

115.178° / –69.120°

80.515° / –43.468°

93.501° / –43.468°

67.265° / –26.610°

80.103° / –26.610°

70.115° / –7.855°

84.142° / –7.855°

63.853° / 15.342°

77.396° / 15.342°

56.777° / 37.464°

69.120° / 37.464°

30.256° / 59.505°

42.835° / 59.505°

15.668° / 35.127°

29.101° / 35.127°

7.659° / 18.511°

21.115° / 18.511°

4.522° / 0.000°

16.476° / 0.000°

1.823° / –28.754°

14.837° / –28.754°

0.000° / –54.575°

11.605° / –54.575°

–14.530° / –77.223°

–3.558° / –77.223°

–33.279° / –43.388°

–19.950° / –43.388°

–38.765° / 10.105°

–26.550° / 10.105°

–43.755° / 22.807°

–30.249° / 22.807°

–56.413° / 69.731°

–44.528° / 69.731°

–66.533° / 30.790°

–53.762° / 30.790°

–73.335° / 15.654°

–61.118° / 15.654°

–97.154° / –65.209°

–83.468° / –65.209°

–122.756° / –20.089°

–111.550° / –20.089°

–140.189° / 6.820°

–125.500° / 6.820°

–150.433° / 48.321°

–138.786° / 48.321°

Colophon

To reject the worldTo embrace the world

—Martin Bergström, 2012

This book was produced as part of a master’s degree project at HDK—School of Design and Crafts, Gothenburg.

Concept, graphic design, illustration and photographyMartin Bergström TextDaniel Gustafsson

TranslationOla Ståhl PrintingPunkt & Pixel, Malmö

BindingMalmö nya bokbinderi

Edition2

East